


Coming Home

by Mohini



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vomiting, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, War Veteran Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: The ease of conversation with Steve is a welcome respite from the forced dialogues with VA staff and civilians. He’s never sure what to do in the civilian world. It’s so much easier when all he has to worry about is which target to take out first.





	Coming Home

He’s been back a few weeks now. He’s mostly living in his car, showering at the gym and bouncing in and out of appointments and meetings at the VA. As of this morning, he’s listed as honorably discharged, eligible for retirement pay with full benefits. Technically speaking, his unit never existed. Not on any registry anywhere less secure than the Pentagon. Probably not even there, really. They did what had to be done. Not for the money, or the credit, or the anything, really. It had to be done. They had the abilities to make that happen. 

He’s at the gym now, a pair of massive plates on the ends of the metal bar that he’s got balanced across broad shoulders. Alternating legs, he crouches deeply before straightening fully, reps adding up silently in his head. This is peace. This is the one place where there are no memories of too much bloodstained sand. Nothing here but the weight and the tension in carefully honed muscles. Kneeling beside the bar now, he removes the plates and replaces them in their holding towers, stretching like a cat before heading to the suspension ropes and flinging himself skyward. His comrades in arms had often teased him for his size. Just a little shorter than most of the other men in his unit, his ability to defy gravity had been the stuff of legend. 

He was suspended upside down, knees locked around a bar and working through a lengthy series of ab work when he heard a voice that shattered the still quiet of his mind in the endorphin haze of exercise. He grabbed the bar with both hands and dropped to the floor in a nearly feline crouch before rising to his feet, looking around to find the source. The broad shoulders and dirty blonde hair were easy to spot. He watched the other man a few minutes, making certain he wasn’t hallucinating before walking across the space.

“Steve!” he called when he was only a few feet away. The other man turned at the sound, eyes widening almost comically. 

“Bucky?”

“Guilty as charged. When did you get back?”

“Last night, actually. You?”

“Bit more than two weeks now,” Bucky replies. The ease of conversation with Steve is a welcome respite from the forced dialogues with VA staff and civilians. He’s never sure what to do in the civilian world. It’s so much easier when all he has to worry about is which target to take out first. The thought must show on his face, because Steve lifts one eyebrow in question. Bucky nods, and Steve gives him a look somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Steve left the Army for contract work about the same time Bucky moved to the “never mention what you do for a living ever” division. Bucky’s pretty sure they work more or less for the same people.

“I’m heading out for a run after I get a decent stretch in. Want to join?”

“Hell yeah,” Bucky tells him. A good, hard run is as soothing as the weights, clearing his head and giving him the endorphins that he seems to need to be functional these days. Apparently living on adrenaline and MREs did some really fun things to his brain chemistry. 

Bucky follows Steve through a warm up, even though he’s been working nearly an hour already and is plenty well ready for a run. It’s not until they’re a half mile in that Steve speaks again.

“You living in your car again?” he asks.

“Bigger than a tent, ain’t it?” Bucky shoots back.

“Jesus, Buck. You wanna stay with me, then? The apartment’s not much bigger than your car but it’s got running water at least.”

“Thanks,” Bucky tells him, and as easy as that it’s settled. He’s got a roof over his head and the one person he actually trusts in the world within yelling distance. They finish out their run and spend a while back at the gym while Steve gets some weight work in and Bucky goes back to the bars to finish out his set. 

By evening, they’re on the ratty couch in Steve’s shitty apartment, a takeout pizza on the coffee table and beers in hand. Bucky hasn’t let himself drink since he made it back to US soil, but with Steve he knows at least that if he gets lost in his head he won’t be able to kill anyone who sets off the reflexes he’s able to control when he’s sober. 

Seven beers later, he’s curled up over the toilet with Steve rubbing his lower back in slow circles. “Shhh, it’s all good, Buck, get it out and we’ll getcha to bed.”

Closing his eyes, he allows his mouth to hang open and the overwhelming amount of saliva to drip freely from his lips. Breathing in deep, he stops trying to hold down the nausea and gags hard. A couple more deep breaths and retches later, a torrent of frothy beer and half digested pizza is hitting the water. He chokes and gags between heaves until it’s all up and Steve is easing him away from the bowl, helping him lean against the edge of the tub and cleaning his face with a cool, damp cloth. Bucky doesn’t argue when Steve picks him up bridal style and carries him to bed, a towel under his head and a mop bucket standing guard within reach. 

Steve strips to boxers before slipping under the covers with him. Bucky’s not completely sure when he took off his own clothes, but he suspects it was at some point just prior to his drinks returning. “C’mere,” Steve tells him, and Bucky curls up at his side, head resting on Steve’s broad shoulder. They’ve known each other since they were kids, growing up hard in a part of Brooklyn not known for its prosperity. 

“Try to get some rest, Buck. I’ll keep watch for ya tonight,” Steve whispers, and Bucky nods in silence against him, one arm across Steve’s chest. He closes his eyes, but he knows the ink on his arm is on full display. Easily covered under a uniform, he’s got a complete sleeve worth of art on the bicep and forearm. Steve is the only person on the planet who knows the work covers scars from an adolescence that would have broken most people into a million pieces.

He’s not sure how much time passes before he’s being held securely as he leans over the edge of the bed, retching so hard he can feel it in his toes. “I’ve got ya, Buck, just get it out,” Steve’s repeating over and over. When it stops this time Bucky is too exhausted to even lift his head up, allowing Steve to maneuver him back onto the pillow like a ragdoll. “You emptied out for now?” Steve asks him. Bucky shrugs. His stomach hurts, but he’s not sure if that’s from being empty or for want of getting that way. 

“I’m going to rinse this out, grab a fresh cloth to clean you up. You feel sick again you holler for me, alright?”

Bucky nods his agreement, struggling to stay calm without Steve’s arms around him. It only takes a few minutes before he’s back, fingers stroking Bucky’s short cropped hair and down the side of his face. “Tell me, on a scale of hangover tomorrow to never drinking again, just how shitty are you feeling?”

“I’ll be okay,” Bucky murmurs, “Haven’t been eating so well.”

“By which you mean you aren’t eating at all, right?” Steve asks. 

“Lived on MREs in the desert, man, a couple weeks of powerbars isn’t going to kill me off anytime soon,” Bucky argues.

“And I up and feed you pizza and half a case of beer. Damn it, Buck, you could have said something,” Steve scolds him.

Bucky stiffens at the reminder, his gut churning again now that he thinks about it. He reaches out for the bin, and Steve helps him sit back up as he pulls it to his chest. It shouldn’t be possible to still have anything in him to bring up, but he pukes anyway before being reduced to helpless dry heaving for what seems like an eternity. 

When it’s over, he drops his head backwards against Steve’s shoulder and sits there, panting for breath. Steve takes the bin from his shaking arms and put it aside. His hands are gentle as he guides Bucky to lie down on the pillow. 

“Shhh, shhh, I’ve got ‘ya, Buck. It’s all fine, you’re good,” Steve whispers in his ear as he lies down beside him. Bucky doesn’t even know he’s bawling until Steve swipes a rough thumb across the swollen skin beneath his eyes. “I’ve got ‘ya,” he murmurs, and Bucky rolls over so that he’s curled up with his head on Steve’s chest, tears flowing free and his body shaking so hard it rattles his teeth. It’s all the guilt and fear and everything else that he’s boxed up and locked away in the dark corners of his brain over the last few years, suddenly free and kicking his tail hard. Steve rides it out with him, arms holding him close and safe, that soft voice whispering the same words over and over, keeping him here and now when every part of his overwrought system wants to drag him into flashback after flashback.   
He cries himself into an exhausted sleep, and when he wakes the edges of dawn are creeping in the window and Steve’s still got him held tight. “Hey there,” Steve’s deep voice rumbles at him, and one look tells Bucky that the other man kept watch over him all night. 

“Hey,” Bucky whispers back. His throat is raw from the tears and the vomiting, and he’s still got that undercurrent of nausea brewing somewhere deep in his gut. Steve knows without asking, and eases him upright as he pulls up the bin to hold it for him. Once Bucky’s brought up what little he had in him, he rests in Steve’s embrace for a while before he ever attempts to move. Everything aches. He tells Steve as much, before closing his eyes and trying to keep himself from heaving more.

“If I thought you could keep it down, I’d offer you some motrin, but I think you might be best off trying to get back to sleep instead,” Steve tells him after the second time he has to hang his head over the bin and retch for what feels like an hour. 

“Stay?” Bucky asks him, beyond even attempting to keep any dignity at this point. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Buck,” Steve assures him, and he settles himself against that broad chest again, shaking from exhaustion and the strain of heaving so hard for so long. 

Steve holds him close, whispers reassurances in his ear, and he drifts back into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me over on Tumblr @ mohini-musing


End file.
